


We Exist, We Resist

by osunism



Series: Get Us There [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern!AU set in a dystopian, futuristic Thedas. The Chantry has become the dominant power in Thedas, and it yokes both military and political might to its cause and to fuel chosen propaganda. Mages have been hunted down, many of them killed, forcibly sterilized, and herded into Circles facilities, never to be seen again. They are given two options: work for the Church or become a living experiment in the Circle facilities kept all over Thedas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I had intended this to be exclusive to Tumblr, but seeing as how people actually like it, I thought I'd post it here as well. There isn't a real linear timeline, nor do I have something in mind with regards to plot. It's just drabbles, vignettes, snapshots of the nightmarish life of a dystopian Thedas. And of course, my favorite ship is featured.

            The first time they bring him in, she schools her face to impeccable neutrality. Inside, she is seething; inside, she is disgusted. The sight of him alone can only be summed up in one word: _shambles_. She’s dressed in what one would call _politico chic_ , a sleek and tailored pantsuit with stiletto pumps, cutting an imposing and unforgiving figure in the pristine and sterilized halls of _Concordia Salus_. Her hair is pinioned in a militaristic chignon, lending a severity to her fine-boned features that straddle the fine line betwixt all that is compassion and all that is ruthlessness. His bloodshot eyes meet hers, bleary with withdrawal, his lips twisted into a self-loathing sneer.

            “Good afternoon, Raleigh Samson,” she does not use his rank deliberately, letting him know that he has been stripped of all, “I’m Dr. Trevelyan. I’ll be working your case here at the facility.”

            She does not offer her hand in greeting, and he does not move save for the slight tilt of his head. Her eyes strike him first, because they don’t match the rest of her. She is dark, like fresh-turned earth, her hair jet black, but her eyes are the palest shade of gray he’s ever seen. They are stars set within her dark face, and right now, they are pitiless. No matter. He’s lost everything anyway. Rock bottom is the furthest he will sink. No further.

            He hopes he is not wrong.


	2. The LZ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aja Trevelyan.

            There are moments before the leap that make her marvel at her own mortality. She has confirmed that there is nothing like parachuting into a hot zone, nothing like the thrill of hovering miles above the earth, with the roar of wind in her ears, and her team awaiting the command to drop in.

            When it comes, she is the last to go.

            She leaps, backwards, feet over her head and then back again, and the wind whips her ears, the air cold against the little exposed skin she has. Her eyes water behind her goggles, and she keeps her lips firmly sealed as she descended to the earth below. Spread out along the atmosphere are members of her strike team, all focused, all ready to literally hit the ground running.

            Aja grins, gives the signal, and they release their chutes, the jerk and pull of suddenly being held aloft making her grimace, her descent slowed as she floats to the ground in eerie silence.


	3. Persiflage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza gets Samson talking.

            She’s got a talent for getting him to talk, he realizes.

            He’s reticent as hell during their first few sessions. She sits at her desk, prim and proper, glasses low on her nose, scribbling on her yellow legal pad every so often. He says some things, mostly superfluous nonsense to fill in the gaps. She asks some basic questions, standard questions for the records. She doesn’t pry, though. Dr. Trevelyan is not a shrink with some kind of mental forceps trying to scoop out all his secrets. No, she just waits, looking patient and unbothered, scribbling away on her legal pad, occasionally turning to her computer to answer emails.

            “You not wonderin’ why I did it?” He asks her one morning and she pauses in her writing to regard him, pale eyes muted behind the glare off her glasses. Her expression is painfully neutral and Samson decides he’s had enough. Her office is a nice, posh corner, high in the building with a great view of the city at large through floor-to-ceiling windows, and it’s a great escape for an hour every morning from the other shit they’ve got him doing in the facility.

            But the silence is deafening, interspersed only with the barely audible scribble of the pen on paper or the occasional clacking of the keyboard and the itching click of a mouse button.

            “It’s not my job to wonder why, Samson,” she says to him, and her voice is uncharacteristically gentle, at odds with the steel of her gaze, “it is my job to understand you and get you the help you need to recover, is all.”

            Samson grunts and turns his gaze toward the impressive view at her back.

            “He promised a better world if we helped him,” he says quietly and Hadiza pauses, “promised that we’d not get flushed down the toilet in his employ like the Chantry does with all its soldiers. Once we’re done, we’re done. Discharged. No benefits if you don’t meet their ridiculous requirements, no medical help for injuries sustained during service, just a bunch of paperwork and a ‘thank you for your service, now fuck off’…” Samson hears her pens whispering quietly along the legal pad.

            “I guess I was a fool for believing him, eh?” He laughs, bitter and brittle with self-loathing, “Been in the spec-ops division of the Order for over twenty years. Took down men and women who made them same false promises at one point or another…and in the end I fuckin’ buy it hook, line, and sinker from a goddamn old-head terrorist.”

            Hadiza says nothing and Samson doesn’t either.


	4. Ripples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne. Aeveth belongs to AO3 user Ballades.

Aeveth’s flat was for all intents and purposes very utilitarian and stylish. It bore the sleek touches of the modern age, with a few statement pieces that echoed of the bygone eras of old. Granite and marble added cosmopolitan touches to the open floor plan of the kitchen, and hardwood floors of cherrywood that were kept rather well-swept and polished. The living room was a place that let in the light through the floor-to-ceiling windows by day, and allowed for an unimpeded view of the sprawl of the city by night. Lights studded the blanket of darkness, and break lights of cars moved like tiny beacons along the well-paved roads.

Aeveth got home just past the ninth toll of the clock that hung on the far wall above the fireplace.

She wasn’t a loud walker, even in heels, and the jangle of car keys was the only break to the silence as she sighed, tossing a few pieces of mail onto the kitchen counter before heading to her bedroom. When she passed the ingress she came up short with a barely audible gasp.

Most had presumed Ariadne Trevelyan either dead or thieved by whatever winds of change continued to thread their silky touch through the grunge-infested alleyways  and outposts of the far corners of the world. She was a creature flagged by myth before falling into wayward anonymity, a graceful gift she accepted without question. It had been many years, but when the eyes of the ages finally chose to abandon her shadow and ceased to track whatever loose ends might unravel the tapestry that hid the woman, Ariadne had resurfaced at Leliana’s behest. It was no coincidence that she had turned up in Aeveth’s home, especially not with so many circumstances on the verge of intersecting.

“Ghost.” Aeveth said calmly and Ariadne’s smile was a slow thing, as graceful as a blade across the throat, but far less gruesome and visceral. She dipped her head in greeting, trailing gloved fingertips over one of the massive posts of Aeveth’s great four-poster bed. Ariadne was clad in what most would deem _assassin chic_ , cutting a fine, slender figure in all black, her hair bound in a single braid with nary a strand out of place. It gave her features a look of preternatural severity, angular and cutting, and the unnerving paleness of quicksilver eyes.

“Aeveth,” Ariadne’s voice was saccharine, but it was a sweetness and filial familiarity that never reached her eyes, which remained as bleached and unmoved as winter, “I take it you received Leliana’s message?”

They both knew there was no message, merely an inexplicable clearing of Aeveth’s schedule that could have only come from the Nightingale. The message was the slender creature standing like some night-spun figment in front of Aeveth.

“What’s this about?” Aeveth asked, “Because I’m not even going to ask how you managed to get in here.” At that, Ariadne shrugged, giving Aeveth an arch look.

“Your boyfriend’s security protocols are very adorable,” she said derisively, “but not made, I think, for an actual infiltrator.” She took a slow circuit around the bedroom, turning soundlessly as she observed the decor. Aeveth knew it was all show. Ariadne had likely gotten here early enough to case the entire flat, have tea, read a book, watch the game, and still manage to make the entire place look untouched. It was why Leliana kept the woman--her lost half-cousin--on retainer.

“Yes, that’s why he lives with me.” Aeveth said cooly, crossing her arms. Ariadne chuckled darkly, and reached for the television remote.

“It’s good to know that you are well-aware of his shortcomings,” she said, switching the television on, “to business, then.” Aeveth turned her gaze to the television screen. Of course the news was on, it was a morning ritual for herself and Cullen. The morning news would drone on and on in the background while they completed their respective routines. It was somewhat jarring to hear and watch it, now.

“You’ve been traveling quite a bit in the last few months,” Ariadne stated, “doing all manner of humanitarian work. Social justice. Already the mages and elves are swaying to your cause. You might take this election in the next few months if you keep this up.” Aeveth never tore her gaze from the screen.

“I don’t think Leliana sent you here to shower me with accolades and empty praise, Ghost.” Was all she said. Ariadne smiled.

“No. Still, it _is_ good work, and for now, my assignment is to protect you from the beast you are doubtless aware you are rousing.”

Aeveth _did_ look at her then, her expression unreadable.

“Protect me? Cullen is my chief of security. He’s no black operative, but I think he can manage that, at least.” She said, and there was an edge to her voice, a little baring of the steel within the sheath. Ariadne canted her head slightly.

“I got into this apartment within three minutes and I didn’t even have to break a lock, Aeveth.” Ariadne said simply, “Cullen can be the public face of your protection. By all means, the man can play the champion to his princess if that’s what gets you two going every night. But there are others out there Cullen won’t see coming.”

“You mean others like you.” Aeveth retorted. Ariadne said nothing, her face a cool and expressionless mask. For a moment neither woman said anything. If there was one thing either of them lacked, it was any semblance of filial piety. The woman standing in Aeveth’s bedroom was a stranger and Ariadne bore no ties to the Trevelyan name save her illegitimate blood. There was no love lost between the two.

“Do I at least get to know who they are?” Aeveth asked at last, slightly agitated. Ariadne’s expression did not change.

“The less you know, the safer you’ll be,” she told her, “just focus on winning your election and changing the world. Let us handle the other thing.” Her eyes narrowed, and she looked past Aeveth.

“Cullen will be home in the next 15 minutes,” Ariadne told her, “I’ll be gone by then, but I’d implore you not to tell him of this exchange. He may be ex-military, but the only secrets he seems good at keeping are the ones no one tells him.” Aeveth was about to say something else when Ariadne started toward the front door, which she highly doubted the woman had used to infiltrate the flat to begin with.

Aeveth watched Ariadne leave, as soundless as a shadow, the door making a barely audible click behind her. For a while, she waited, and it felt like some great danger had left with the other woman. Her bedroom suddenly felt more spacious, and the droning of the television sounded less brackish and out of place. And sure enough, almost to the second, Cullen walked through the door fifteen minutes later.

“You’re home early,” he said to her, and his smile was a sunrise compared to the woman who smiled like a cat licking cream, “something wrong?” For a moment Aeveth simply took him in. He was so damned honest and open. Here, in this place he had deigned completely safe, and he had no idea her black operative cousin had infiltrated it as if someone had let her in. Aeveth wondered who these faceless enemies were, giving Cullen a terse smile as he took her arms and leaned in to press a kiss to her mouth, chaste but loving.

_It’s good to know that you’re aware of his shortcomings._

“Nothing’s wrong, Cullen,” she told him, “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

The best-kept secrets were the ones that never left one’s lips.


	5. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson makes a startling discovery about Dr. Trevelyan.

They’ve had exactly eight sessions over the course of two months when he realizes something’s wrong.

It’s high summer in Orlais, the season’s fashions are worn all over the streets of Val Royeux, the heat outside is nearly oppressive from what he can tell, when he and the other patients are allowed outside, mostly to tend to the pristine gardens and lawns of the grounds as well as to breathe some fresh air that isn’t vented and recycled. Everyone wears short sleeves.

Dr. Trevelyan always wear a jacket of long sleeves. Expertly tailored, but she wears a long-sleeved jacket despite the heat.

The first time he sees her without it is completely by accident.

They aren’t scheduled for a session that day but Samson’s route just happens to take him past her office. Her door is slightly ajar, and there is clearly an argument going on.

“--can’t keep going on like this, Commander,” Hadiza is saying, “I’ve complied with every policy to the letter. The least you can give me is implants.” Samson’s brow knits in consternation, a frown twisting his lips. Implants? From what he can tell the Doc’s got a nice rack. What does she possibly need with... _oh_.

“Doctor, if the bracelets are causing you pain it is because you are exceeding the limit of power allotted to you, not for any other reason,” it’s a male voice, light and arrogant...Orlesian accent, “implants are not a requirement and we must budget accordingly. Unless your bracelets are defective, they seem to be doing their job just fine.”

The more Samson listens, the more he learns, but the less he actually _knows_.

The Commander snatches open the door and Samson smoothly lets him pass. He barely gives him a second glance as he walks away. Samson sees Dr. Trevelyan leaned over her desk, and glancing around, steps into her office. Upon closer inspection he sees the problem. On each wrist is a solid bracelet made from veridium, and inlaid with what looked to be lyrium stone. Samson knows what the bracelets signify. The lyrium is glowing slightly, and her fingers curl into the desk as she draws in a long, slow hiss of controlled anguish. She’s angry, and her power is pushing the boundaries of the bracelets that keep it contained.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, looking up sharply. Samson finds he isn’t afraid or intimidated and is subsumed in a glorious calm that makes him feel as if he and the Doc are finally on equal footing.

“A mage,” he says, and her eyes narrow, “working for the Church’s military. But you’ve got the bracelets, so you were clearly one of the Circle facility mages.” He holds her gaze, but he sees the first cracks in that calm facade, sees the contempt, the bitterness, the perfect storm of despair pass through her gaze like a shadow over the moon.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Is all she says to him, standing up straight, trying to hide behind her calm again. Samson finds that he does not despise her for betraying her own kind and working for what amounts to little more than her worst enemy. No, he pities her, for while she tries to make things better for the facility’s patients, she’s no more free than he is.

Samson says nothing and leaves, shutting the office door behind him.


	6. Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza has a memory.

“How many times is this, Trevelyan?” Commander Frederick is furious. He’s always furious these days. It makes precious little difference to her. She stares resolutely at the tiled floor, her cuffed and bound hands in her laps, her hair a bird’s nest of snarls and tangles. A pair of silver eyes lifts briefly, assessing the Commander’s mien, then goes back to the floor.

“The facility is trying to help you,” he goes on, and she knows what comes next; it’s a lecture ripped straight out of the Church’s propaganda pamphlets. The Circle facilities are here to help! Mages need proper care and attention to ensure the safety of all!

Hadiza could spit in Commander Frederick’s face for daring to quote that tripe at her. She’s only 19, but she’s been in and out of Circle facilities since she was 10. She knows the drill, knows it as surely as the sun knows  its trajectory across the sky.

“How is probing me helping?” She asks bitterly, “How is that helping anyone?” The Commander hesitates but then continues. It’s the classic example of someone knowing that something is wrong, and pressing on ahead regardless. Hadiza is sick with empty despair.

“The experiments are to ensure that…” Hadiza doesn’t hear the rest. Her anger spikes, but the bracelets on her arms flare to life, vivid and blue and she feels the ensuing fatigue that makes her bone-weary as her mana is sapped from her, diffusing instantly and making her slump in her chair.

 “That’s why,” the Commander says, “because every time you or another mage loses control of their emotions, horrible things happen. Innocent people get hurt, including yourselves.” Hadiza looks up sharply, but the mana drain makes lifting her head tiresome.

“And so the best bet is to what? Herd us all into these awful camps and use us as nugs? Then when you’ve drained us completely, we’re disposed of? That’s your fucking answer?”

The Commander has no argument prepared for that. One look at the various horizontal scars on her wrists tell him this is a fight he won’t win. He opts to finish the paperwork in silence, calls in two templars to escort her to her dampening cell. She doesn’t resist, and while in the cell, cut off from even the baseline of her power, Hadiza wonders if change is possible.

She wonders how to tears the walls down from the inside.


	7. Caged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's still some fight left in her.

They’re making progress. He’s talking more, and she’s always listening.

The Doc doesn’t talk about the bracelets, and Samson doesn’t bother asking. He was a templar, she’s a mage; no further investigation is needed.

Still, _two_ of them meant that Dr. Trevelyan was pretty powerful in her own right. She doesn’t use her powers, of course, and the bracelets are obvious. As are the scars on her inner forearms. Samson doesn’t ask about those either. Doesn’t need to. But it paints the Doc in a different light. All that straight-laced severity, with the tight bun and the utilitarian pant suits. She had to have been wild once, and they broke her.

 _How’d they clip your wings, little dove?_ He thinks to himself as she takes a sip of her coffee. _How’d they make you believe the cage was better?_

He wants to spit it’s so disgusting. The Church leashes the mages, leashes the military, keeps everyone in check by using one or the other to threaten their enemies. People above the acceptable threshold of magic are marched to Circle facilities and never seen again. They get two choices: work for the Church, or become an experiment for the ‘betterment of all.’

Samson knows what the fuck that means. How many sheet-covered bodies were rolled out of the White Rooms in those facilities, when a mage burned out? He’d seen what the Church did to its victims, and he’d sought to change that.

And somehow it’d blown up in his face.

“What did you expect to happen?” she asks him, her voice gentle. There’s no judgement in her office, not during their sessions. He no longer feels the itch in his bones. They’ve stabilized his system. He’s functioning with a clear head again, but they already told him it was too late. The red shit was going to take him either way, but they managed to slow it down. His clock was ticking and no one knew what time he’d be dead.

No one seemed to care, either.

“I don’t know, Doc,” he says gruffly, “that maybe someone would see and join in. That someone would join me in trying to end this bullshit madness. I mean...look at you. They’ve got you set up in this nice posh office, helping burned out pieces of shit like me to get back on our feet...but they put a collar on you too.”

Hadiza goes still for a moment, but continues to write. Silence follows in the wake of her pen’s scribbling. Samson watches her.

“Is that what you think you are?” She asks, still gentle, still soft, still luring him into thinking she gave a shit about him.

“Stop acting like you give a shit, Doc,” He snaps, irritable. The itching of his insides is back, and it’s suddenly too hot in the room. She glances up, surprised. “Stop acting like you don’t see me as anything but another lyrium-fucked ex-templar with an axe to grind.”

Dr. Trevelyan sits up a little, places her pen down, removes her glasses.

“You think I don’t care about your well-being?” She wonders. Samson wants to snarl, settles on a sneer.

“I think you care about maintaining the status quo, Doc,” he says nastily. “I think at one point, maybe you tried to get out from under the Church’s thumb, but they got to you somehow. Broke you into working for them, and now as long as you can maintain the illusion of freedom...as long as you forget the bracelets on your arms, you do your job. You’re _obedient_.”

He sees it, the fire building in her eyes. The fury in her is cold and brief, like a gust of crisp and biting wind from the Frostbacks. It cuts to the bone, but is gone, leaving only the polished steel of a sterling gaze in its wake. In fact, any emotion she may have had has been scoured and bleached from her face entirely.

“Is that what you think of me, Samson? That I merely ask you these questions and pass you along when I feel you’re fit to move onto the next step of recovery?” Her voice is calm, measured, and controlled. Samson hasn’t gotten under her skin yet, but he knows he struck something in her. That flashfire of fury in her eyes was telling.

 _So_ , he thinks smugly, _you still got some fight left in you. Not a meek little dove after all_.

“It doesn’t much matter what I think,” he replies, leaning back on the couch.  “You’re going to mark me down as needing more counseling, pass me off to someone with a much colder heart, and then I’ll shuffle through the system like every other burned out and half-dead soul that comes through these halls.”

Hadiza is visibly nonplussed, and Samson sees something that looks akin to disappointment in her expression. He doesn’t want pity, but the disappointment is palpable.

“You became close to this Sethius person,” Hadiza states solemnly, “and in the reports you claim that you sought only to uproot the Church and free everyone from its--and I quote: ‘oppressive tyranny.’ You were dishonorably discharged for allowing unauthorized communication between a Circle mage and a civilian.” Hadiza is not reading the report, but is merely quoting from memory, her gaze on him is steady, but something is turning the hard steel of her eyes to quicksilver, to boiling mercury. There is a tinge of ozone in the air and Samson tenses on instinct, but his blood is clean, his bones dry, and his system flushed completely of any residual lyrium that may have allowed him a defense.

The lyrium inlaid within her bracelets flares up and she winces, bites her lower lip, and her eyes close as she takes a deep, withering breath, calms herself. The change in her is immediate as some of her mana has been drained. She rubs her temples, and then opens her eyes, slow and deliberate, and even the metallic sheen of them is muted to a clear and piercing gray. Samson feels somewhat guilty for getting her worked up, but he needed to know that this whole song and dance was not complete bullshit.

“I think that’s enough for today.”She says at last, her tone flat. “We’ve made headway, at least.” Samson stands up, makes his way to her desk, sees her tense, and stops himself. For a moment he’s looking at her, and he’s not seeing Dr. Trevelyan. No, deep down, there’s some rebellious and scared girl with bracelets on her and fear in her eyes. Deep down, she’s still that frightened young girl, and she has just received a harsh reminder that she isn’t as free as she believes.

As Samson turns to leave, she calls him back.

“You’re not burned out,” she tells him firmly, “and you’re not a piece of shit.” She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give him some afterschool special speech about how he’s worth something. She just casually denies that he’s worthless, as if it is pure, inescapable fact; as if it is non-debatable. Samson doesn’t know whether to smile or whether to laugh derisively and tell her she’s full of shit. So he turns back around and leaves her office, shutting the door behind him.

Perhaps the little dove is not so content in her cage as he initially thought.


	8. Donuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson runs into Dr. Trevelyan six months after his release.

    It’s been six months since he last saw her. Six months since he got his release papers and was marked sane and clean and ready to reintegrate into society at large. The last day he saw her, they’d talked for a while, and she’d smiled a bit, flashed her pretty teeth. Now, he’s sitting in a tiny apartment, paying rent through the nose, and working as a construction worker. It’s hard work, but it’s honest and pays the bills.

    He thinks about her a lot.

    The days in _Concordia Salus_ are long and tedious, made only interesting by the conversations that take place during their sessions. He does most of the talking, she listens. At least, that was back when he was still there. He makes her laugh, even though she tries to hide it. And once, she almost lets her hair down...almost. It’s an errant lock of hair, shorter than the rest of it, curls possessively along her right cheek, and he wants to push it behind her ear, just as an excuse to caress her cheek.

    He thinks about her too damn much.

    And as if by happenstance, on a blustery autumn afternoon, he sees her. He knows it’s her because she’s tall as shit, real leggy, but it’s her eyes that give her away. That molten steel doesn’t match her dark coloring, and Samson is wearing a shit-eating grin because her fucking _hair is down_. It’s long and lustrous, waving and curling past mid-back as she walks briskly, nigh swallowed up by her peacoat, toward the corner coffee shop and bakery. Samson opts to follow her, and a good excuse as any is to buy a cup while he’s in there.

    She’s sitting alone by a window, a brown wax bag with a chocolate-glazed donut sitting atop it. A steaming cup of coffee is in front of her. She’s focused on her phone, so Samson comes to her table.

    “Well, well, fancy seeing you here, Doc,” he greets and she looks up, pale eyes going wide. She smiles, but there is something about it that’s hesitant.

    “Samson? Oh...wow, it’s been some time!” She says, and gestures for him to sit. He does, sliding into the booth across from her as she swipes at her phone’s screen and then sets it down. Samson marvels at her in this setting, how she seems so much more at ease than in the facility.

    “Yeah, it’s been a while,” he agrees, smiling at her, well-aware of the stark differences between them. He is dingy and scruffy, his hands calloused and thickened from hard labor. She is the pinnacle of simplistic elegance and sophistication, all style, class, well-manicured nails, and a winsome visage. Time does not wear on her as it does on him.

    “You look good,” she tells him, “how’s society treating you?” He wants to tell her everything. The words crowd at the tip of his tongue, all of the ugly truths about what he’s facing. The echo of lyrium thirst at night, faint but still aching, the way he’s viewed by co-workers and supervisors alike, and the stigma of his tarnished and shredded reputation, clinging to his heels like toilet paper from a public restroom.

    “Well enough,” he says instead, “and you? How’s work?” He sees the same reaction in her. A hesitation, a lingering desire to speak the truth and shatter the illusions of freedom and contentment they delude themselves into thinking they have attained. He sees her lips part, can almost feel the first breath of the words float between them, and then she smiles, but there is a sadness in her eyes.

    “Well enough,” she echoes his words, “although none of my current patients are quite as interesting as you were.” They both laugh, although they’re both thinking of the one time the line between them was wiped away. He’d stepped too close, she hadn’t pulled away. Her lipstick smeared all over his mouth and hers, but neither of them cared. He tried not to pop the buttons on her blouse. Samson is having a hard time focusing again, because he’s imagining Hadiza leaning back against her desk, his hands down her pants, fingers working tirelessly while she whispers and begs hotly in his ear.

    All at once he’s drawn back to reality, and sees Hadiza’s mouth moving.

    Shit.

    “Hey,” he says to her, “since we’re not trapped in the Spire anymore I was wondering if you’d like to go out for lunch sometime.” Hadiza freezes, and Samson sees several things he might have done wrong. Perhaps the request is too forward, or perhaps it’s too soon to be seen as anything but inappropriate.

    Perhaps he’s not good enough for her, and that was worse than anything else that might had stymied her reply. He doesn’t blame her for hesitating. Who’d want to be seen with aging ex-templar trash like him? And one with a tarnished reputation besides? He’s been clean for a full year, been through the entire rehabilitation system, and is working an honest job with honest pay. He’s legitimate. But he doesn’t blame her if he’s not her type, former patient or not. Samson feels his anxiety swell, feels his heart hammer in his chest so hard he thinks she can probably hear how nervous he is. Hadiza watches him for a moment, her face a commingling of confusion, surprise, and a burgeoning delight. Samson feels perhaps his request was simply too blunt...and maybe he’s just good enough for her to give him a chance.

    “You want to go out,” she says at last, “...with _me_?” He can’t help it. He laughs. Hadiza’s expression is bewildered. Has she never been asked on a date before? He can’t imagine her being anything but first pick, looking like she should be on the glossy cover of a magazine, or floating in a champagne glass in some Orlesian duc’s estate. No, he decides, the Doc is too smart and proper for all that. If she went out with anyone, they’d have to truly interest her for her to say yes. He can’t decide if her surprise if from amusement or genuine. And so Samson finishes laughing, and he’s grinning at her in full, tilting his head as he takes in her suspicious expression.

    “Yeah, why not? It’s lunch. I’m buying. Nothing fancy, just you me, and the food.” He tells her and she glances down at the table, cheeks burning, and then suddenly reaches for her untouched donut, taking a large bite. She delays in her answer by chewing, but her expression is briefly one suffused with supreme satisfaction. Samson chuckles. So the Doc’s got a bit of a sweet tooth still; he briefly recalls the little dish of candies she kept on her desk, remembers her primly unwrapping them and sucking on a hard candy as she took notes.

    He remembers the sweetness of her mouth, kissing her to taste the caramel left behind on her lips.

    Samson swallows hard as Hadiza sips her coffee.

    “Just lunch, yes?” She asks him. Samson affirms with a nod. Hadiza takes a deep breath and sighs.

    “Alright,” she says to him, the corner of her mouth curling up in a soft smile, “but I get to pick the place.” Samson’s grin is wide, and something in his chest surges, like his entire chest is filled with nothing but fresh air.

    “I wouldn’t have it any other way, princess.”


	9. Unbecome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A death in the family calls Aja home.

    Aja doesn’t flinch when the XO tells her the news.

    “If you need anything at all, Commander,” he tells her as she takes a deep breath, standing at ease, “let us know. We’ve already approved your emergency leave and you’ll be flown out at 1800.” Aja gives a solemn nod and pivots smoothly on her heel to leave the office.

    “Commander,” the XO calls and she turns, “your brother was a good man. Served true. Give the family my regards.”

    “Aye, ser,” Aja responds and leaves the office. She makes her way back to her stateroom, comforted by the hollow metallic sounds of the small-boy bustling with life. Junior sailors make way as she makes her way toward the officer’s wing of the ship. She notes the greener faces, still swaying unsteadily, out of rhythm with the pitch and roll of the vessel as it cuts across the Amaranthine Ocean. She smoothly avoids one sailor who stumbles, stammering an apology as she waves him off.

    By the time she makes it to her stateroom, the weariness settles in. With her deployment winding down, Aja decides to pack, and as she does, she makes the mistake of thinking as well. Kesson Trevelyan had been a templar of exemplary merit. He hadn’t been anyone of note, opting not to lean on the laurels of the family name, much as Aja had done. But he was a leader.

    And apparently there had been an incident at one of the Circle facilities that claimed his life and that of three other templars. Maleficarum and abominations are rare occurrences with the introduction of the suppression bracelets which monitor and suppress mage abilities, draining mana when they attempt to overpower the limit. Aja is intimately familiar with the bracelets.

    Her elder sister, Hadiza, wears two.

    By the time she is packed, she leaves for the flight deck where a helo is prepped and ready to see her to Ostwick. The sailors standing by salute her and she sketches a quick salute back as she ducks inside, the sound of the ocean beating against the ship’s hull drowned out by the cut of the helo’s blades. Promptly, it lifts off at the signal and guidance of of an aviation boatswain, and suddenly her battle group falls away in the distance, until the ocean rolls beneath them, dark and ceaseless in its shifting. It is in this display of power that Aja takes some cold comfort. If the helo crashes, the ocean will swallow them up and she will sink. Perhaps her problems will sink with her, or pass to her next of kin.

    It takes about two hours for them to land in Ostwick, and Aja is received by a Trevelyan town car, the driver opens the door as Aja climbs inside, still in the uniform of the Church’s military, her seabag slung over her shoulders, and her garment bag in one hand as she tosses both into the spacious backseat and settles in beside it. The air of the heliport is moist and muggy from the sea, but inside the town car smells of leather oil and stale cigar smoke. The air conditioning is too cold for her liking, even for an officer. She shivers in her uniform a little, and sits in pensive silence as the car pulls away, heading inland toward Ostwick proper. She’s got three days before her brother’s funeral.

    Three days to think of a proper way to tell him goodbye without spitting on his fucking corpse.


	10. Embody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of the Ghost.

    “This is new for you, Ghost,” the voice was derisive, coupled with a thread of laughter, “watching the back of someone you could be paid an unseemly amount to kill? What prompted you to side with the underdog?” Ariadne stood in front of the shined pane of a two-way mirror, watching the proceedings with all the cool detachment of the callsign she had been dealt. Her expression was one of hard lines and cold calculation and yet it seemed there was a flicker of amusement at the comment made.

    “Hardly new for me, Donovan,” she said, her voice melodious and purring, “you just let too much time pass since you last went snooping around in my dossier. Aeveth Trevelyan is not exactly an underdog.” There was a shout from the other side of the glass as the sound of flesh meeting flesh managed to come through the speakers in the ceiling. Ariadne noted that the bound subject’s jaw was slightly askew, likely broken. If he lived, they’d have to wire it shut. Donovan stood by her side, cat-quiet and sleek in a tailored suit, his dark brown hair slicked back as he adjusted his cufflinks.

    “That so? Got the Game all figured out do you?” He laughed,  “I guess you would know...being so close to her and all.” Ariadne smiled thinly, but it faded back to the cool mask of unfathomable neutrality. She crossed her arms, watching the interrogation closely. She was waiting, not unlike a wolf awaited the scent of a hot trail to follow. Donovan watched her a moment and was briefly reminded that he had had a hand in the sculpting and molding of the woman beside him. In truth, she was no woman at all on the best days. Perhaps that is what made her such a brilliant agent. She played her part so well that none knew which they dealt with: the lady or the tiger. She was still in her waiting, silver eyes unblinking, as if she were living statuary. A wail issued from within the room and Donovan tore his eyes away to watch. Blood stained the floor around the metal chair to which the man was bound, his shirt a ragged mess of sweat, his skin streaked with perspiration and blood. His teeth were mostly missing, save those necessary to pronounce certain syllables, and his fingers--or rather, those that were left--were broken.

    Another wail issued, and this time Ariadne stirred to life, tilting her head just so. A name, a location, and a time was bellowed out of the ululating cries of anguish and subdued terror. The Breaker--the one responsible for interrogations both clean and otherwise--glanced back toward the mirror as if requesting confirmation.

    “Run the name and location through the system,” Ariadne said curtly to a technician. There was a sound of fingers skirting over a keyboard, and the silence was long save for the artificial hum of the vents and the computers in the room.

    “All check out fine, ma’am. Printing a confirmation report, now.” Ariadne reached forward, pressing a green switch.

    “The name’s clear,” she said cooly, “we’re done here.”

    For a moment there was confusion on the man’s face as the Breaker nodded and turned to face him. The confusion became a mounting horror as the Breaker pulled the pistol from his back belt and pointed it. There was a scream of abject terror, a single gunshot, and then silence. Ariadne was already halfway out the door when Donovan called to her.

    “Good hunting, Ghost. I hope you catch the bastard.”


	11. Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson asks Hadiza a very intriguing question.

    Resistance starts with a question.

    The structure of the question does not matter, nor the individual who asks, or the one who answers. When the question is asked there is a brief moment in which one is thrown out of time’s continuous stream and a realm of infinite possibilities is revealed. Before them lies branching paths that were previously unseen and some even barred.

    When Samson takes Hadiza out, he does not think he matters. Not in the grand scheme of things. No, he thinks he is just another burned out templar; a social pariah clawing at the grime-edged walls of existence, struggling to survive. He knows people are watching them, people neither of them know, but everyone seems curious. Hadiza is a beautiful, statuesque woman in expensive pumps and understated elegance. The wind combs through her hair like the affectionate fingers of a lover. Her mouth is stained a deep plum, and she looks for all the world as if she is meant to be anywhere but standing next to him.

He picks her up, of course, and his car is a muscle of Ferelden make. He’s made enough to have it restored to its previous black lustre, and he doesn’t miss her slight smile when he revs the engine, making the car growl around and beneath them. He smirks, his grip tightening on the gear shift as he takes off down the road. Hadiza’s gaze is out the window, watching the world blur by as Samson takes them to where she wants to go. It’s outside the Perimeter, just on the edge of where she’s allowed to go before the templars get suspicious of her activities and come sniffing about.

Samson expects Hadiza’s tastes to be as refined and elegant as her taste in clothes and shoes. He expects to be shelling out a bit of money for a fancy Orlesian meal. He gave himself two weeks to save up enough to take her somewhere nice, and when she tells him to keep driving, he does. The car’s growling engine is a bit too loud for small talk so the majority of the ride is silent, and both of them seem perfectly content to remain so. She adjusts in the bucket seat, shifting to one hip, and Samson wonders if now is a good time to ask if she’s alright. She hasn’t smiled since he pulled up to her apartment building.

They enter the outskirts of Val Royeaux, edging toward wild territory, and Samson begins to worry that maybe he’s been made an accessory to a crime in progress. Hadiza directs him down a side street, and he realizes belatedly that they are in a less wealthy part of town.

“Here.” She says softly, almost soft enough to be overpowered by the car’s road noise and Samson looks up at the flickering neon sign.

 _The Blue Note_ , the sign says, but the ‘E’ at the end flickers on and off. Samson sucks his teeth thoughtfully, shooting a questioning glance at Hadiza. He parks along the dive bar’s side street and he comes around to help her out. Hadiza steps out like a red carpet is waiting for her and immediately stumbles. Samson catches her and she laughs.

“Not very graceful in the dark,” she tells him and he smiles.

“It’s fine, princess. You’re not fallin’ on your ass before you’ve had a drop of liquor in you tonight.” He replies and she laughs again. They head to the Note’s front door, which was likely once painted a vibrant, ocean blue but has been stripped and chipped with various staplings of flyers, business cards, and some faded graffiti. The muted hum of music can be heard and Samson opens the door, immediately smelling stale and fresh cigarette smoke, hearing the clack of billiard balls, and the low, throaty sound of someone singing on a bad sound system that gives shitty feedback every time the singer moves too close to the center stage speaker.

It’s his kind of dive, alright, but not somewhere he’d expect Hadiza to frequent, let alone want to go on a first date. He notices that here, the people don’t stare. Here, there are no questions as to why someone like him is standing next to someone like her. Everyone’s a little drunk, or a little high, or a little of both. The singer is a slender elven woman in a red dress and knee-high black boots. She cradles the microphone like a precious thing and her crimson-stained lips mouth words to a song Samson doesn’t know. His focus shifts to the bar, where several stools are taken, save the one at the end that he can tell is a little off-kilter. He spots a booth and leads them to it. It’s quieter but a little on the dark side, and right near the one bathroom in the whole place but he doesn’t mind.

Hadiza doesn’t seem to mind either.

“Not where I expected you to want to go,” Samson tells her as Hadiza rummages through her purse to find her phone. Seeing no pertinent notifications, she sets the phone back in her purse and levels her gaze at him, smiling like a feline that has just devoured the canary.

“Ah, well, I thought we both knew not to expect anything from others, Samson,” she laughs, “unless it’s the unexpected of course.” She shrugs out of her jacket revealing a long-sleeved blouse of sheer material. He can see her skin in the right light, can see the satin of her undershirt too. She’s careful about the placement of her arms, still, he notices, and those damnable bracelets are why.

“So I gotta ask,” he ventures, “why here? I was expecting something a little more posh from you.” Hadiza lifts her arm to flag down a waiter. It’s a skinny lad, barely into his twenties from the looks of it, and he blushes when she smiles at him.

“Would you be so kind, Etienne,” she says sweetly, “as to bring me my usual?” Samson narrows his eyes. Hadiza stops Etienne before he walks off.

“Is Remy working tonight?” She asks. Etienne shakes his head.

“No ma’am. Just Annie and her brother. I’m sorry. If you want I’ll let ‘em know it’s you and they can mak--” Hadiza shakes her head.

“Don’t trouble them with that, darling. Just my usual. Anything for you, Samson?” She turns her gaze back to him and the man chuckles.

“Ain’t even a menu to look at. I’ll have what the lady’s havin’, I guess.” Their gazes meet across the smoke-screened air, and Hadiza grins at him. On the stage, the elven girl takes a sip of something clear and inebriating, smacks her lips, and clears her throat. The speaker hisses and whines with brief feedback and she takes a cautious step back. The murmur of the crowd is disjointed and cloistered, but their booth is silent.

It’s almost peaceful if not for the fact that their thoughts are in turmoil; there are questions as yet unasked, and words they long to speak but are hindered on tongues to afraid to shape them with any care. Hadiza runs her tongue over her teeth, a habit developed to ensure no lipstick stains them. Samson watches the crowd through a haze of cigarette smoke, the sound of glasses clinking together, of cutlery scraping on plates, and the brackish murmur of the sundry assortment of individuals provides a counter-melody to the singer on the stage.

“Doc…” Samson starts and Hadiza shakes her head.

“Hadiza.” She corrects and he smiles. He’s said her name before. He’s said it in his head a dozen times over. But he’s never let it leave his lips.

“Hadiza,” he says slowly, “how’d you end up working that job at the Spire?” Hadiza tenses at the name. No one calls the White Spire by its new name. The Church’s attempt to rebrand its largest symbol of tyranny and oppression has been met with sneering cynicism and outright apathy. Everyone still calls the building the Spire, and everyone knows what truly happens within.

And yet no one has done anything about it.

“I…” She hesitates, looks down, and Samson regrets prying.

“You don’t have to answer that,” he tells her reassuringly, “if it’s all the same to you, I’m kind of glad you were working my case and not some cutthroat looking for a paycheck.” Hadiza looks up at him, gives him a small smile.

“I wanted to try and help people,” she says, “I thought if I agreed to work for them, that maybe I could save the ones they would throw away.” Samson’s smile fades and his eyes glitter in curiosity. Hadiza is wringing her hands, gnawing her lower lip. She’s never told anyone this before.

“So many templars are left to spend their days rotting in--” She stops as Etienne returns with a tray laden with food. He sets down a plate of fully-loaded french fries before each of them. Samson looks at the amalgamation of melted cheese, hot chili, and the light dusting of sea salt. Hadiza begins eating immediately, makes a subtle moan of delight. Samson swallows hard and understands a little as to why Hadiza chose this place. He takes a fry, takes a bite. It’s good. It’s high-caloric, high cholesterol, finger-licking good.

Samson clears his plate easily, and to his surprise, so does Hadiza, who sips her drink out of a straw, looking content. He watches as she dabs at her mouth with a napkin, a small smile on her face.

“You were saying…” He says and she blinks, nodding.

“Yes,” she begins, “I just...I saw what they were doing to us. Mages...templars. It makes no difference to them so long as they can use us. I thought maybe if I worked from the inside, I could change things, make them better.” She looks disappointed, staring at her hands again. Samson wants to take her hands in his but he doesn’t. Instead, she sighs, sitting back in her seat.

“I tried the same thing, once,” Samson tells her, “and you’ve seen how that turned out.” He laughs, self-deprecating and husky. She merely smiles back at him, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Samson wants to ask her something important, but he’s not sure how she’ll react. He wants to know more about her. Secrets she keeps, the story behind the scars on her arms.

How they convinced her that a cage was better than true freedom.

The music shifts to a playlist while the elven singer exits the stage for a break. Hadiza grins.

“Do you dance?” She asks and it catches him off-guard.

“No.” He says gruffly. “No.” Softer this time.

“Would you like to?” She offers, her smile as slick as oil. Samson hesitates. He doesn’t dance, never really got into it, but he should have known she might be a dancer...or at least could move to the music. Determined to not make a fool of himself, he counters her offer with one of his own.

“You shoot?” He asks, indicating one of the vacated billiards tables. Hadiza’s smile becomes shy.

“A little.” She says and Samson slides out of the booth, offering her his hand. She takes it and he gently hauls her to her feet. For a moment they’re standing too close and he steps away.

“Alright, Hadiza,” he teases, “if you can beat me, I’ll dance with you.”

“And if you win?” Hadiza asks, pursing her lips. Samson thinks for a moment. He hasn’t even thought about what will happen if he wins. Hadiza has nothing he wants from her that can be given in a careless wager. He decides he’ll ask for something she does not have to give immediately.

“If I win, I get to ask you one question and you have to answer honestly.” He tells her. She eyes him with suspicion as they take up their pool cues. Samson chalks the tip of his with a deft hand as Hadiza sets up the table.

“I’ll take that wager, then. You breaking or me?” She asks and Samson steps aside, offering her the spot. Hadiza chalks her cue, tossing her hair over one shoulder. She leans over, knowing the weight of the cue is shit, but trying for power anyway. When she breaks the formation, a solid immediately rolls into the corner pocket, but the bulk of the formation is still sitting stubbornly.

Hadiza likes pool, she realizes. She does not play often, but she likes the beginning of the game. Breaking the formation is a bit like cracking a code, she realizes. The balls scatter randomly, but open up a wealth of opportunities for one to prosper during the game. She begins to think in angles and trajectories, and with each turn they take, those angles and trajectories shift. Both of them are focused, but she soon realizes that Samson is a much better player than she gave him credit for. His grip on his cue is sure, his stance and aim precise. He knows when to put power behind the strike, and when a gentle tap is needed. He knows how to bank the cue ball and avoid hitting anything but what he intends. Rapidly, the striped balls begin to vanish from the felt table.

When he sinks the eight ball in the left corner pocket, Hadiza dreads what question he’ll ask her.

“You really don’t want to dance, do you?” She asks him and he smirks, shrugging. Hadiza sighs, setting her cue aside, waiting. Samson pays for their food, and they leave the bar, breathing deep as they realize how fresh the air is compared to the choked, cloistered atmosphere of the club.

“One question,” she reminds him, “and do I have leave to _decline_ to answer?” Samson rummages in his pocket for his keys, unlocking the car as they get in. For a moment, they merely sit there. Hadiza can smell car oil and grease, a hint of gasoline, and him. It’s not a completely unpleasant mix of smells, but it is strong.

“You can decline if you want, but I don’t think you will.” Samson puts the key in the ignition but doesn’t start the car. Hadiza waits. The question Samson asks is not a personal one, and yet it feels personal.

“Have you ever thought what would happen if you were given leave to go?”


	12. Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The result of a kissing prompt from AO3 user ptereodactyldrops. Samson crosses a line he didn't think he'd ever reach.

It is only the third date.

That’s fine, but he doesn’t think it is. When she invites him back to her place, he’s nervous. Shit. He wasn’t expecting it. Not that he isn’t prepared, but he wasn’t expecting her to invite him over.

She lives on the fifth floor. There’s a fancy awning over the entrance and a doorman. She lives _that kind of life_. Samson knows he looked out of place because all the lights in the lobby are working, and there’s a concierge–a fucking concierge!

Hadiza walks with the easy confidence of a woman who owns the world, suppression bracelets and all, and he does everything he can not to turn tail and act like he isn’t some scruffy creep following her home. So he walks beside her, and when they hit the elevator and he eases up…just a bit.

“You look like a cat under the threat of a spray bottle, Samson,” she says with a laugh, “you’re making me nervous.”

Samson eyes her sidelong, grunting. When they exit onto her floor, it’s plush carpeting under his work boots, the click of her heels muted to dull thuds as she makes a path toward her door. The numbers on the doors are glossy gold-plate, fancy scrollwork placards with the names of the tenants and everything. The Church has set her up good with this life, under the condition that she ignores the fact that she’s a mage. Samson begins to wonder if it’s worth it.

“Can I get you anything?” She offers, “Tea? Cocoa? A beer?” Samson smiles at that last offer. Hadiza doesn’t drink–not anymore. He declines the offer for cocoa, shoots for tea instead, and then he watches her. She puts a kettle on the stove, turns it on to boil

They talk. Of course they talk. About everything. Here, Hadiza’s a little less clammed up, a little more herself. Hair’s still pinned up, but he doesn’t mind. She takes off her heels, sets them by the door, goes about preparing the tea. He smiles when she rises onto her toes to reach for the box, comes around to give her a hand, steadying her around the waist as she teeters. The box slips out of her grasp and smacks her right in the face. They both laugh.

“Not graceful in the light, either,” Samson teases and she nudges him playfully, and both are surprised that he’s been holding her all this time. She faces him, her fingers on the unbroken plastic around the box of tea bags. Their gazes linger too long, his touch is too warm, too familiar…too _welcomed_. The first move is fate’s choice, and he’s not sure if she steps in or he pulls her but his mouth is on hers and it’s good…so good. He’s been dreaming about this moment he’s not sure he’d ever see played out. He’s been thinking about the curve of her smile, the way her lower lip is so lush and soft, and he sucks it between his teeth, lipstick be damned.

And then he remembers it’s only the third date and he pushes her away.

“We shouldn’t…” she says, her eyes fever-bright, her lips parted, lipstick smeared. The water for the tea is boiling, the pot is whistling quietly.

“No,” Samson agrees, but they’re both lying, “we shouldn’t.”

Hadiza moves the kettle to an unoccupied part of the stove, turns the burner off. And then she takes a deep breath and moves toward him again. This time, he knows who moves first: they both do. His arms catch her as hers tangle around his neck, and their teeth click together in the first, ferocious moments of trying to find that space again, trying to find that moment in which the kiss simply is. He pushes her back against the far counter and she makes a noise low in her throat that drives him up a wall with desire.

They shouldn’t.

They do.

* * *

The morning brings with it a sense of change that she can’t quite describe. There is an intense feeling of a puzzle piece falling into place, of a crack made in a dam long-since fortified and abandoned. The sheets of her bed are pristine and white, rumpled from the night’s activities, and when she gazes out of the window, the sun is just beginning to ascend, fingers of light creeping between the tall buildings surrounding her apartment.

For a moment, Hadiza lies still, and then hears the distant clatter of dish-ware coming from the kitchen. She stretches her legs beneath the cool sheets, reveling for a moment in the softness and comfort of her own bed.

And then she smiles, recalling all that came before last night.

When she finally slips from the bed, searching for something to wear, she smells the fragrance of pancakes, hears the low simmer of batter in the pan, grins wider. She snatches a button-down hanging from her closet door, tossing it on as she heads out to the kitchen. Samson is standing over the stove, the muscles of his back garishly defined under fluorescent light, and she takes note of the dusting of freckles along his back and shoulders, and the faded scars. She remembers, in brief, trying to kiss every part of him, tangled in the dark, and too impatient.

Slow down, he’d told her, laughing as she made a plaintive sound. The first time had been frantic; a forceful attraction that had been building for months. It was a flashfire, brief and life-affirming, but it had shattered the ice, stripped away the awkwardness, and allowed them to see each other for the first time.

“You gonna keep gawking, or you gonna help me make breakfast, princess?” Samson’s growly voice pulls her from her memory, and she comes to, blinking slowly. Her footsteps are silent along the warm wood of the floor and she stands next to him, watching him work. He pours the batter with delicate care, makes a perfect circle and she laughs.

“You don’t need my help,” she tells him, “I can barely pour it without...where did you learn to do that?” Samson gives her a feral grin and easily turns the pancake over revealing a golden brown side while the other side cooks on an even simmer. He points to the box of pancake mix.

“I follow directions.” he says casually and she nudges him when he chuckles. Together, they stack eight pancakes between them, not bothering with her kitchen table as they stand close to one another, using the counter to eat. Samson doesn’t feel as awkward and nervous as he did last night, and there’s something honest about desire the he’s sure stripped away whatever they had to feel awkward about. Of course, sex is nothing to him. It’s good to have, and he doesn’t have to do much talking save for the occasional encouragement or direction, but this aftermath shit...he’s not so sure. What does he say? What does he do? He’s made her breakfast, she looks satisfied, but what about after? Does he put his clothes back on and go?

Hadiza clears her plate efficiently, washing it down with a glass of orange juice. It’s strange, seeing her with her hair down, the color of the night sky if the stars all vanished. Her skin is burnished sienna, a startling contrast to the soft blue button-down she wears. He notes the length of her legs, hides a smile when he remembers how long it took him to kiss them just last night, and then the sleeves of the shirt pull back and he sees the bracelets.

It serves to remind him that the illusion of freedom is still in existence. It reminds him that she’s both a prisoner and a tool of the Church. How long since she’d felt herself at full-strength? He wonders if she even thinks about it, or the question he posed her two weeks prior.

“You’ve got a lot on your mind,” she says to him, leaning her hip against the counter’s edge, “something you want to share?”

Samson wants to ask her to find a way to snap the bracelets and free herself, wants to shake her and tell her to fucking fight, but she looks so content right now, so pleased, so unaware that the Church is slowly burning away the light in her. But he knows that once the Church is through with her, she’ll never be seen again. The scar that bisects her chest is proof they already tried their hand at disposing of her. He can see its raised and silvery edges, poking up from where her shirt is unbuttoned. Why’d they try to crack her open?

“Nothing important,” he says gruffly, “you don’t have to work today?” Hadiza shakes her head silently. Samson is relieved. Neither of them have to work, and they’d shattered a barrier last night. What now?

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggests and his brows go up, “with clothes on, of course.” She laughs at her own wit and Samson shakes his head.

“Where to, princess?” He asks her. Hadiza pokes her lips, rolls her eyes upward to think in an exaggerated pose.

“Anywhere.” She tells him. Samson has a list of places he wants to take her to, all of them being as far from the Church’s grasp as possible. Instead, he has an idea.

“Alright. Get dressed, then,” he tells her, “I know exactly where to go.”


	13. Resist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza finds an answer to Samson's question.

    She thinks about the question daily, but she doesn’t tell him because she has no answer. Not yet, at least.

    The halls of the Spire are pristine and sterile, everything scrubbed spotless, as if the fear of stains and contagions are just as prominent as the fear of magic. Hadiza walks these halls day in and day out, knowing that no amount of scrubbing will ever erase that fact that mage blood soaks the ground this building is built upon. She will never forget the screams from within the Circle facilities, the restraints, the **collar**.

She is growing increasingly angry each day, and watches her suppression bracelets spark dangerously on the days when her temper is particularly short. Everyday, she hears news of new mages being rounded up, some as young as four or five years old, being hauled off to Circle facilities to be tested for power and fitted for their own suppression bracelets. Those who can get by with one bracelet are usually released from custody but placed under watch. Those who wear more than one must stay in the facility.

    Hadiza stares at her wrists, at the cold, muted gunmetal gray of silverite around them, inlaid with the dull blue of pure lyrium. Somehow, the technology was upgraded, the tech that allowed the bracelets to essentially do what templars did, only far more painfully. Any mage that exceeded the limit of the bracelets’ Fade capacitors would feel the backlash of their own mana, and the subsequent drain. She balls her manicured hands into fists, the muscles in her forearms flexing, making the old scars on them more visible. Some criss-cross, others look as if they were made with angry slashes. All of them had been deep.

    Hadiza pulls her sleeves down and turns her hands over.

    _What would you do if you were suddenly given leave to just...go_?

    Samson’s question haunts her work hours, passes through the sterilized air of her office in a strange echo, like a phantom trapped within the structure. She breathes a little deeper, trying to will the question from the forefront of her thoughts, and yet it has become apart of her. She thinks on it, tries to summon a simple answer, and can find none. What Samson asks is what she would do if suddenly given her freedom, if suddenly she were free of bracelets, trackers, and the Argus-eyed watch of the Church.

    What did she want with that sort of freedom? What life would she lead?

    Hadiza buries her face in her hands. His question has lowered defenses that have been crafted over years of enduring the torment and cruelty of the Church’s none too gentle ministrations. She touches her fingertips to her sternum, knowing without needing to make contact with the flesh, the deep, aching scar that lays there.

    She remembers barely being above sedation when she saw how they’d cracked open her chest. They had intended to take her organs, to use her as a test subject for study of magic.

    She had resisted. Violently.

    The Church decided to keep her alive.

    Hadiza’s hand clamps over her mouth on a choked whisper of a sob, hot tears leaking from her eyes. His question has undone everything and yet she still sits in this office, trying to endure this existence. Trying to convince herself that the cage is better than the open sky.

    When her rattled nerves settle, and the tears stop, Hadiza retreats to her office’s bathroom to clean up her face. There, she stares at her reflection. Time has worn on her beauty, or perhaps it is weariness at her existence beneath the Church’s thumb. There are shadows under her eyes, artfully hidden with well-placed concealer. There is a weight at the corners of her mouth that do not allow her smile the full brunt of its power. Her eyes hold a flash of something longing to be freed, like lightning in cloud cover.

    And there is a fever stirring in her blood as the answer to Samson’s question finally makes itself known.

    Hadiza swallows, and her expression hardens as she stares at herself in the mirror.

 _She is not done fighting_.


	14. Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When things hidden in the dark are dragged into the light, everything changes.

It’s always dark when they have sex, Samson realizes.

    Hadiza doesn’t like it with the lights on, and at first, he thinks maybe it’s him. Maybe she’s ashamed of being touched by a man like him. He knows he’s not the type to step off the pages of a magazine, but he’s no stranger to how to touch a woman. She’s responsive, vocal, and _eager_. She responds to him in ways he doesn’t expect, and he can’t believe that her love for the darkness is all him alone. He isn’t that bad looking, is he?

    So one night, he asks her. She’s sitting there, in a thin satin robe, and he’s sitting in front of her. When she reaches to turn off the light, he stops her.

    “I want to see you,” he tells her and she freezes, something in her eyes is startled and he moves to soothe the rising hackles of whatever fear he’s sparked in her. He remembers she is-- _was_ \--a Circle mage, and has been run through the wringer of the system same as he.

    “You’re seeing me, now.” She replies, wary and tremulous, like prey deciding if it needs to bolt. Samson smiles at her rejoinder, rubs her satin-clad arms reassuringly. When he goes to open her robe she freezes, catching his wrists.

    “What’s the matter?” He asks her, backing off. Maybe she’s one of the mages who got caught with the wrong templars. Maybe they’d done more than simply collar her. Hadiza hesitates and it occurs to Samson that he is seeing a side of her no one else has seen, and probably never would have had he not taken a chance to ask her out all those weeks ago. Hadiza hesitates again, and he can see her trying to string words together that can explain her sudden anxiety.

    “I’m...I’ve never…” She swears under her breath, “In the Circle facility I was kept in, there were things done that left...marks.” It’s all he needs to know. He’s served long enough to know what she means. He’s seen the result of the things the Circles did to the mages they deigned worthy of testing. Hadiza takes a deep breath, shuts her eyes, and shrugs out of her robe. Samson immediately sees what she’s hiding. He’s glimpsed it in passing, has felt it with hands and lips in the night’s depths, but he’s never actually seen it. The scar is a clean line down the center of her sternum. It is raised and ugly, smooth where it has become a keloid, silvery in contrast to her dark brown skin. There are several puncture scars on her arms from where he knows they’d wired her with trackers for her vitals, forcing her to cast spells to test the limits of her power. At the collarbone there is a pair of puncture scars. She _had_ been collared.

    That, he did not know until now.

    Hadiza’s expression is one of shame and anxiety, and he slowly, tentatively, reaches to touch the scar on her chest. He’s done it before, in the dark, but she watches him as he touches it, calloused fingertips brushing from one end to the other. He briefly touches the collar scar in the center of her collarbone, and she swallows hard.

    “This what you afraid of me seeing?” He asks. Hadiza says nothing, meeting his gaze. She’s wearing nothing but the suppression bracelets, and he likes that she’s slightly pudgy in the middle--all those damned sweets. All this time, he forgets that she’s just as much a victim and survivor of this rotten system as he is. Two sides of the same coin. He pulls her into his arms, and tells her without words that she has nothing to be ashamed of. Hadiza is scared that he will find her imperfect, that he will see she is damaged and it will ruin what she believes is a fantasy they’ve created. He knows this, but doesn’t say it. And so he tells her, wordless and in earnest, that this is not a fantasy crafted by the desperate and the bereft.

    It doesn’t last long. After all, he’s no spring chicken, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she tangles herself up in his arms, kisses him, wordless and thankful. Something salty and wet drips onto his cheek. He’s not good with tears, but she’s not crying, not really. So he holds her close in the light, content.

    He doesn’t even remember when he closes his eyes, only the sound of her light snore, the scent of her perfume on his skin, and the weightlessness of a dreamless sleep.


	15. BPM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Harrowing. Be warned: blood and gore ahead.

    Hadiza is heavily armored when in the presence of those who marked her. She fastens around her person the mantle of cool indifference, clinical detachment, and deflecting humor. She paints her face with cosmetics and resilience, and everyday she looks into the faces of despair and the steel around her heart warps a little more. She has done this for years, fortifying her resolve with each day that limps past, burying the weakness that is her past too deep to be excavated without aid. She thinks herself able to handle this. She knows if she keeps her nose clean and her head down, she can help provide the health and comfort the Spire denies its denizens. She makes of her office a bastion of safety and hope. If they have nothing else in this pristine and sterilized prison, her patients will know peace. She thinks she is handling it well, and Samson’s question flares in the curved walls of her skull like an old spell.

    She has to witness a Harrowing today.

    She has not witnessed a Harrowing in a long time, and in truth she is glad for it. The Harrowing ceremony is an antiquated practice that is highly unnecessary in this day and age, but the Church--the **Chantry** \--has opted to retain the practice. Hadiza is called to witness because she must assess the mage’s mental state following the Harrowing. She must mentally evaluate one of her own. Even if they pass, even if they _resist_ , the mage can still be found mentally unfit. The Church would rather kill the mage and harvest their magic-rich body for study than suffer another charge.

    Hadiza stands in the Harrowing chamber of the Spire, the one place that retains the design of hallowed antiquity. It is a circular chamber with a vaulted ceiling, and grisly frescos of history painted in the paneling. Stained glass windows provide diluted colored light from the outside, and torch sconces line the wall all the way around, further emphasizing the ancient feel of the place. Hadiza feels slightly ill in the place, knowing that magic--and blood--permeate the place. The blood of mages that never lived to see the outside of this chamber soaks the weathered stone floor, and even the sound of her heels striking the ground is eerie. Templars stand in a ring around the center of the chamber, dressed in clean gray uniforms bearing the Church’s insignia, and armed with semi-automatic rifles. Hadiza knows this display of restrained force is all show. A bullet to the skull is all it takes to put down a mage.

    She sucks her lips into her mouth, remembering.

    “Doctor,” it is Commander Frederick’s voice that jolts her from the memory subsumed in cold dread, “I trust you are ready?” Hadiza says nothing, merely nods. The First Enchanter, a woman named Talia, enters the Harrowing chamber with a young girl in tow. Hadiza knows the girl can be no older than 16 or 17, and she is as pale as the first blooms of the peonies in spring, her skin nearly translucent. As she passes closer, Hadiza can see the bluish veins beneath her skin, and there is a tired look on her face from studying...and dreading. Her hair is the color of moonlight, but her eyes--ah her eyes!--they are dark and luminous, like pearls, and expressive in their apprehension. Hadiza pities the girl her fate, but there is nothing she can do. She is here to observe, nothing more.

    The center of the chamber houses the Harrowing Chalice, which is little more than an old, ceremonial goblet of weathered brass. The glow of the lyrium provides barely any light, but makes the young apprentice look even paler as she steps before it.

    “All weapons released from safety.” Commander Frederick says with nary a trace of pity or remorse. Hadiza is thankful to anyone listening that he at least has the decency not to look gleeful about the potential murder he and his men will likely need to commit. There is a sound of a dozen clicks as the safety of each gun is turned off, and instantly the tension begins to coil around everyone’s throats like a noose. Hadiza steadies her breathing, wondering which would be worse: the girl surviving her Harrowing, or the girl dying at the hands of a dozen trigger-happy templars.

    _Living_ , Hadiza thinks with a sad bitterness, _living is so much worse, girl. If you know what’s good for you: don’t survive or they’ll make you wish you hadn’t_.

    Hadiza regards the unbidden thought with abject horror because she realizes how wrong it is for her to think it’s normal. She doesn’t know what normal is. Normal is sagging in restraints with tubes sticking out of one’s arms. Normal is listening to the scientist and behavioral trainer demand one cast this spell or that spell until the meter readings are satisfactory. Normal is having one’s cries of anguish and mewls for mercy fall on deaf ears as the suppression bracelets are calibrated and tuned to one’s mana levels.

    Normal is begging for death rather than the pained, tortured existence of becoming one of the Church’s many experiments.

    Hadiza swallows the lump in her throat as the young mage takes the chalice and drinks. She knows without needing to look that the girl’s hands are trembling, and as the lyrium takes hold, no one steps forward to soften her fall, nor to catch the chalice as it clatters to the floor after her, rolling and spilling the remaining dregs of lyrium in the grooves between the stones with a quiet hiss of blue smoke.

    The girl is still for a long time, and from thence it is merely a vigil...and waiting.

    “Doctor,” Talia says softly, “how long has it been?” Hadiza stirs, blinking slowly, turning her gaze to limn the First Enchanter in cool detachment.

    “It has only been thirty minutes, First Enchanter,” Hadiza says dully, “are you tired?”

    “No,” Talia says firmly, “I mean...how long has it been since you last witnessed a Harrowing?”

    Immediately Hadiza tries to suppress the memory but it bubbles up, like rotten water in a clogged drain, momentarily staining her already strained mood. Harrowings these days are rare, as the Church prefers to cut to the heart of the matter--sometimes literally. Mages are fitted for bracelets and tests are run to ensure the bracelets properly calibrated. However, because of humanitarian groups protesting the methods the Church uses to contain and handle high-powered mages, Harrowings are still performed...to maintain the status quo and appease the social justice champions.

    Hadiza’s last witnessing of a Harrowing was approximately five years prior.

    “Five years,” she says softly, “but I don’t think this one will be as bad as the last one.”

    Talia nods, silver hair gleaming in the light. They look on as the mage’s body lies in stillness, her breathing barely perceptible in the poor lighting of the chamber. Hadiza swallows hard when the girl’s hand twitches. She watches intently, waits for the telltale signs of the girl coming from the Fade and back into the waking world to join the ranks of Harrowed mages...for all the good it would do her.

    The twitching increases, sends jolts down the length of the girl’s body, the sound of her flopping against the stone floor sickening to Hadiza’s ears. Without warning, the eyes snap open, glowing white, and her mouth opens, wide, wider than humanly possible, the gums blackened, and the teeth sharp. A growling wail rises from the acid pit of the girl’s belly, haunting and clearly inhuman before her eyes shut and she falls silent. The templars are on edge, now, fingers near the triggers of their rifles, but the girl is still. As if the eerie incident had not happened, the girl’s eyes open gently, fluttering lids like a flickering film reel bringing clarity to her vision. For a moment, Hadiza dares to be relieved.

    “Take her arms,” the Commander says curtly and before she can finish sitting up, two templars have taken the mage’s arms in a firm grip, forcing her to her knees.

    “Wait!” She cries and Hadiza takes a step forward only to be held back by Talia, who shakes her head.

    “Please! It was a mistake!” The girl’s pleas fall on pitiless ears as one of the templars takes a pistol and places the cold muzzle against the girl’s forehead. The mage meets Hadiza’s gaze. She’s frightened, so frightened, and tears are flooding her eyes as the templar releases the safety and pulls the trigger. The gunshot is loud, unable to be muffled as the bullet passes through the girl’s skull, blowing the back of her head apart in a spray of blood, viscera, hair, and bits of bone. Hadiza’s hand goes to her mouth as the smell of loose bowels instantly fills the room as the girl’s body sags forward, revealing the damage in full. She is rooted to the spot in her fear because she has only heard--never seen. In the Circles, these horrid acts were carried out in privacy, but everyone knew. Hadiza had never witnessed a failed Harrowing...and never had she truly seen just how pitiless the templars were.

    “Doctor,” Talia’s voice pulls her back, “come. It’s done. Let’s go.” Hadiza nods dumbly, walking with leaden steps toward the door, leaving the mess of failure behind. As soon as she and Talia turn the corner toward the mental health wing, Hadiza leans over and wretches. There is nothing for it, and Talia does nothing to help her. She has witnessed too many of these to feel pity for a mage who willingly accepted the shackles of the Church.

    There are no words exchanged, and Hadiza makes the remainder of her way back to her office alone. Talia does not follow, and it does not seem she feels sympathy...not in the way Hadiza would expect.

* * *

 

 

    Samson has been waiting for her for thirty minutes. They were supposed to go out tonight, but when Hadiza opens the door, revealing a face swollen from obvious crying, and wearing nothing but a nightshirt, he cancels their plans.

    He doesn’t ask her what the problem is, he’s learned sometimes it’s better to just offer the balm and inquire about the nature of the wound later. So Samson says nothing as she throws her arms around him and sobs. He says nothing as she spends tears she probably thought she no longer had. He doesn’t mind her anguish soaking the well-worn leather of  his bomber jacket, and his arms come around her, holding her steady. When her sobs are quiet and when the tea on the stove is brewed, she tells him everything.

    And she starts from the beginning.


	16. Bouleversant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

    The sun rises over Thedas, but the light is weak and watery, the cloud cover bleak and steely as a winter wind sweeps from the Frostbacks across the land. Hadiza watches the light attempt to come through her window. It’s the weekend, and no work means she can stay in her bed, safe and protected from the world at large. She stays in bed, letting the feeling of complete emptiness subsume her. There is no despair, no longing, and no nostalgia for the way the sun beams through the slits in her blinds. There is only a cold, bleak neutrality, like the sea once the storm has passed; her mind is cold and gray with the realization that this has become her life. This endless hopelessness has become the very core of her existence.

    Hadiza looks down at the bracelets on her wrists, and cannot remember the last time she felt whole.

    A buzzing on her nightstand draws her out of the emptiness. Samson’s name flashes across her phone’s screen, and Hadiza manages a small smile as she answers.

    “You’re rather perfunctory, Raleigh,” she mumbles, her voice croaking with the frost of sleep. Samson’s chuckle is gravely, tinged with static through the phone. Even now it sends a shiver down her spine and she imagines he is there with her, running a calloused hand up her side only to run his fingers through her hair.

    “I try to be a man of my word, princess,” he says, and Hadiza bites her lip at the nickname, “you doing alright?” Hadiza wants to tell him everything, but she wagers he’s heard enough. The poison that she has swallowed for years in the Spire is far from finished being lanced from the wound on her soul, but she reminds herself that _she_ is the therapist. She should be able to draw it out without needing him.

    But the way he held her that night as she wept tells her otherwise.

    “I’m alright,” she says with consummate dishonesty, “but I’d feel better if you were making me pancakes.” She hears Samson’s laugh, a crackle of static, and the sound of a jackhammer in the distance. He’s been on the project for rebuilding much of Orlais in the wake of the war. Parts of Halamshiral that were burned during the elven rebellion, and parts of Emprise du Lion that were corrupted with red lyrium. Hadiza no longer finds faith in the Church, but she does pray for Samson’s continued safety.

    She wonders if there’s anyone listening at all.

    “Just alright, huh?” Samson asks slyly, “Well what are your plans tonight, Doc?” Hadiza rolls onto her back, sighing.

    “Nothing, really. I have to finish writing up a report but other than that, I believe I’m free. Why? You trying to steal me away?” Hadiza’s tone turns flirtatious, sleepiness becoming a sultry purr. She can feel the jagged edge of his grin on the other end.

    “Steal you away, Doc?” He muses “I ain’t never been a thief in my life. Now, if you’re offering me some time on your busy schedule, then yeah, I might be wanting to claim that.” Hadiza grins, rolling onto her belly again.

    “Then consider it yours, Raleigh,” she tells him, “when are you free to claim it?”

    The charge between them increases in voltage, the electricity building as the tone of their conversation takes a turn in a direction both desperately want to go. Samson sucks his teeth, miming thoughtfulness.

    “Depends. How bad do you want it?”

    “Enough to come and get you myself if need be.”

    Samson’s laughter is from the belly, deep and pervasive, sending thrums of heat into her blood, spindly and viperous as she bites her lip on a groan of anticipation.

    “If you come and get me, I’ll get fired for some public indecency. Be patient, princess.”

    Hadiza spends her entire day being patient. She drafts up the report, as she promised she would, but her mind is now focused. All she can think of is Samson. His crooked, shark-toothed smile, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the roughness of his hands on her skin yet his caresses were always gentle and indulgent. His mouth on hers, on her throat, on every part of her that ached and throbbed beneath his knowing touch.

    _Be patient, princess_.

    The bleakness is replaced momentarily by the overpowering brightness of euphoria as she remembers the nights they spent in one another’s arms. He’d kissed each and every scar that marked her flesh. He could not dull the pain of the memories contained within each slash, puncture, or knot, nor could he change the story, but he could restitch the tapestry that comprised her...teach her to allow herself to love all the patchwork that made her into the person she was.

He kissed everything from the ugly keloid on her chest to the angry slashes on her inner forearms. He learned her story through touch and taste, and accepted that while he had been afforded healing and rehabilitation, she had not. With each kiss, Hadiza had come undone; had quivered in fear that the story her body told would put him off. But it had not. And she shut her eyes in boundless relief and sighed with a pleasure she'd never known. The icy layer of cruelty the Church had left behind cracked beneath the unexpected tenderness of his touch, allowing the warmth of her to seep through.

Samson continued kissing her until he met the juncture between her thighs. He’d tarried there, long and arduous, until Hadiza’s fear melted into the magma heat of desire, and her voice wavered as she wailed and writhed against him.

    _Be patient, princess_.

    Hadiza works until sunset, breaking only for a snack until the report is finished. When the sun vanishes behind the buildings surrounding her apartment, her door buzzer sounds.

    Samson is standing in front of her door, smelling like diesel fuel, fresh leather, and that natural, sour musk that is entirely his. Hadiza revels in the scent, so at odds with the powdery, clean scent of her home. Samson smiles at her and she flings her arms around him, kissing him all over his face. He laughs, trying in vain to catch her mouth, bumping their foreheads together instead.

    “Alright, alright,” he mutters, finally managing to push her away just far enough to look at her, “you’re way too excited to see me.”

    “And you’re overdressed.” Hadiza retorts slyly, tugging lightly at his belt buckle. Samson licks his lips, grins, and shrugs.

    “That’ll be the first and last time I hear that, I’m sure.”


	17. Ownership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson is content and anxious all in the same scintillating turn.

    He tries to tell himself he’s bullshitting. He tries to say that it is a fever that will eventually run its course. She’s going to get tired of him eventually, and the charm of their romance will eventually wear off as she moves onto better prospects. He knows this to be true because he looks in the mirror and doesn’t see whatever she sees in him.

    Work takes his mind off of that. The heavy labor and the comfort of set routine helps him to stay the course of his thoughts, helps him distill the anxiety into fuel for his body. He’s not thinking of her, but the thoughts are there, a muffled song buried in his mind; white noise that makes the cracks of his bones ache with a longing he tries desperately to deny.

    The end of the work day brings with it the feeling of hopefulness as he clocks out and makes his way to the parking lot. As the site dwindles in the distance of his rearview mirror, the white noise becomes clearer. He’s thinking of her constantly, wondering–hoping–that her thoughts are just as consumed. But he knows that isn’t true.

    Samson lives on the twilight border of two parts of town. He makes just enough to afford not to be ass-deep in the rougher parts, but not enough to have the streets clear of litter or potholes filled in. He doesn’t mind. He has a place to sleep, a roof over his head that doesn’t leak, and for fuck’s sake he has  _food_. Others might scoff at his barebones living arrangements, but Samson knows what it’s like to have nothing, including hope.

   The time he’s spent on parole has helped to change all of that. So when he walks through the door, and glances around his one-bedroom with the busted couch, the coffee table that was little more than a mess of various pieces of mail, too many nicks and scratches, and that one leg that wobbles precariously, he smiles to himself. He doesn’t have much, probably never will, but it’s his, at least.

    He wonders why he hasn’t heard from her for a while, and then he worries that maybe she’s outlived her usefulness to the Church. He immediately calms his frayed nerves, reassuring himself that the Doc is a strong woman. She can take care of herself. If the Church decides to do away with her, she’ll survive. She won’t let them take her without a fight.

    Still, the doubts linger, just beyond his mind’s reach, in the shadows, and so he gives her a ring, gets her voicemail.

    “Hey, princess, it’s me,” he doesn’t give his name, “just wonderin’ what you’ve been up to. Hope work hasn’t been too hectic. Wouldn’t want you to burn out.” Samson pauses, reaches and finds a pack of cigarettes. He lights one, takes a drag, and stares at the clock on his wall.

    “Anyway, I wanted to see you again. Maybe get something to eat at that old diner by the site you love so much. Coffee is still shit, if you’re wondering.” He smiles into the phone, memories coming to him like petals drifting in a lazy stream. “I’ll even let you eat off my plate this time. Give me a holler when you get this.”

    He hangs up, finishes his cigarette, and puts the butt in an empty beer bottle, extinguishing it with a hiss. Exhaling the last of the smoke, he frowns. Hadiza is normally so punctual about returning calls, and if she can’t call, she texts at least. This radio silence on her end is out of character.

     _Stop worrying, you old sot_. He chastises himself as he tugs off his boots and sits on the couch. _She’s a big girl and doesn’t need you coming after her like some mother hen. She’s fine_.

    Samson realizes as he switches on the TV, that he doesn’t quite believe himself.


	18. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was raining, I was feeling some type of way, Samson may or may not have a foot fetish.

Hadiza takes the day off, calling in one of her sick days at work. The rain is heavy, a dull, metallic roar outside her window, drumming notes on the roof of cars, on the railing of the fire escape, on the pavement of the street. She slides her freshly waxed legs against one another, relishing the feel of fresh sheets, of her soft skin, newly showered, and of the stretch of hours ahead of her that do not consist of paperwork.

It is a respite in a life where she is afforded so little.

Her phone buzzes incessantly with emails from work, emails she will get to on the morrow. For now, she is off duty, turning the skills of her empathy and healing inward.

Her phone buzzes again, this time with a phone call. Samson’s name flashes across the screen and Hadiza can’t help it. She smiles into the book she’s reading, the words on the page forgotten as that headiness fills her up, making her dizzy. When she answers, she has to catch her breath, and fails to hide the smile in her voice.

“Princess.” His voice spills through the phone, sends a thrill to the roots of her hair and the tips of her toes as she bites her lip.

“Hello, Samson.” She says, trying hard to mask her delight. He hears it, he always hears it, and she can feel his smile, all teeth, can almost see his eyes crinkling at the corners, eyes alight with mischief.

“Why aren’t you at work?” He asks her and she picks at the embroidery on her duvet idly, relieved that the initial excitement has ebbed. Hadiza sits back against her headboard with a sigh.

“Took the day off.” She explains and she hears his sound of assent. He knows better than most how badly she needs days like this.

“You want some company?” The question is wrapped in too many things and Hadiza gasps quietly, hoping he doesn’t hear. If he does, he makes no sound to acknowledge it. Trying to pretend she doesn’t have a definitive answer, she pretends to deliberate, glancing around her bedroom, wrinkling her nose at the basket of laundry in the corner. She knows the kitchen needs work too.

“Yes.” She says, “How soon will you be here?”

Samson doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t mask his desire, and doesn’t mince words.

“Say the word, princess, and I’m there.” He tells her. Hadiza swallows hard, feels her skin grow hot at the prospects such an offer entails.

“Come through.” She tells him in a voice husky with a note he is all too familiar with. This time, he chuckles darkly.

“Give me about half an hour.” He says to her and she nods as if he can see her. They hang up and she holds her phone, staring at the home screen, gnawing her lower lip.

Thirty minutes is a long time when one is waiting in anticipation, but tragically short when there’s preparations to be made. Hadiza scrambles out of her bed, deigning to do away with the tower of laundry in the corner first. She doesn’t bother to sort the darks or the colors, she dumps as much as she can into the wash, fills it with soap, and turns it on. The tower becomes a tiny pile in the basket, and that can be explained away at least.

There’s a few dishes in the sink, and she hastily shoves those into the dishwasher, wiping down the counters and pouring drain cleaner into the drain to ensure nothing is clogged. When she catches sight of her reflection she grimaces. Her hair is frizzed and crackling with dryness, but at least she is freshly showered and waxed. She examines herself in the bathroom, ticking off her mental calendar to ensure there are no crimson surprises forthcoming.

True to his word—damn him—he’s at her door, soaked to the bone, but Maker he is a sight! She watches him through the peephole, and he looks uncomfortable standing in the hall, his jacket dark from the rain, his hair completely wet and dripping. His lips are twisted into a slight frown as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. In her bedroom, Hadiza can hear the distant buzz of his phone call.

She opens the door.

Samson smiles at her and her knees turn to water.

“Catch you at bad time?” He asks, and she laughs, reaching to tug at his shirt. Samson knows she can’t move him on her own, and so he yields to her, stumbling past her threshold into the warmth of her apartment, shutting the door behind him. Hadiza doesn’t hesitate and her arms come around him, meeting him in a surprised kiss. After his initial surprise, Samson yields to that too, and for a moment the world shrinks down to those thrumming moments. Each kiss is a pluck at the strings of his heart, a sentence to write, erase, and write again. _I missed you_.

There is a moment where they can’t decide if they want each other right then, or if they should wait. But why wait? Who is there to tell them how to love? Samson’s hands span the breadth of her ribcage, over her satin-clad breasts, his thumbs passing slow and deliberate over her nipples, making her gasp and then groan in surprise.

“This what you called me here for?” He asks her, nipping her lower lip. “You take the day off just for this?”

Hadiza smirks, eyes heavy-lidded with languor. “I might have,” she says, passing her tongue over her lips. “Is that wrong?”

Samson indulges the game, lips pecking a path along the tender line of her jaw. When he reaches her ear his breath is warm and moist, smelling of cigarettes.

“Not in the slightest,” he assures her, “I had hoped that’s the kind of company you wanted, princess.” Hadiza says nothing, words bottling into her throat, turning to nothing but a withering sigh, slow and controlled in an effort to stead the feverish cadence of her pulse. Samson knows how to get her going, but before he can whisper any manner of filth in her ear, Hadiza turns and leads him to the bedroom, the satin robe sliding from her shoulders as she goes.

Samson follows the sway of her naked backside, licking his lips as he sheds his wet jacket, hanging it over the back of the couch. He pulls his shirt over his head, kicks off his heavy boots, and by the time he joins her in the bedroom, he’s more than ready. He tugs at his belt under the watchful, star-thieved gaze of the umber goddess before him, and she watches him, the rain going from a roar to a hushed whisper, as if it too has been anticipating this moment and fears to disturb it.

Samson steps out of his jeans and goes to Hadiza as if in supplication. In truth, he knows it can’t be anything less. She parts her legs only slightly, and he catches sight of the moist lips of her cunt between.

They are long past making love in the dark.

As he comes closer, on his hands and knees, she plants one of her feet on his chest, halting his progress. Obediently, he stops, meeting her gaze, open and waiting. She calls the shots here, he knows, and he waits for her orders. Her smile is open and sincere, and she draws her foot across his chest, upward. Samson’s hand comes up, clasps her ankle. With deliberate care, he moves her foot, turning his head, and kisses the tender arches almost reverently. She bites her lip on a laugh. His kisses map the live wire ache from heel to toe, massaging with his thumb as he goes.

Hadiza sinks into the dozens of pillows at her back, shutting her eyes briefly. Samson takes her other foot, bestowing upon it the same treatment, showering it with kisses, working out the ache and tension with his thumb. When he sets it down on the bed, Hadiza opens her eyes slowly. The rain has risen to a roar again, but it is muffled, a distant thing made only clear by the occasional distant rumble of thunder. Her legs part and Samson fills the space between them. She meets him in a soft, melding kiss, achingly aware of the hot length of his cock pressed against her skin. He moves his hips, angling himself, and effortlessly surges forward. Hadiza breaks the kiss to free a wordless and quiet sound of relief.

He doesn’t move.

Instead, he holds himself there and watches her. Her eyes are wide, pupils expanded until he sees only a ring of silver around them, and he can feel the heat of her skin against him as she breathes deeply and exhales.

“Maker,” he breathes, “you’re a damned beautiful sight, you know that?” And she laughs, reaching to pull him closer. He moves, slow and deep, trying to see how many the range of sounds he can draw from her, trying to see how close they can get. He wants to feel more than her cunt wrapped around him. He wants their thoughts touching, wants to feel that earth-shaking sensation people go on about. He knows it’s mostly talk, but Maker she is beautiful and he is in love with her and she’s calling his name, begging for him to finish her off.

His hands find hers and their fingers intertwine. Her grasp is strong, and he pins her hands to the mattress, raising his tempo only slightly, rocking her to and fro, relishing the rhythm of her little gasps, the shape of her mouth around his name when he’s hilted inside of her, and the lovely profile she makes when she tosses her head to the side, unable to bear it.

The thunder rumbles, closer and louder, and he can’t hold back anymore. He releases her hands, grasping her legs to push her knees back. Hadiza bends easily, yielding to this new, deeper angle. Her gasps and cries change in pitch, choked off by his punishing rhythm. He shuts his eyes as she hooks her legs over his shoulders, he immerses himself in the sound of her breath struggling in her chest, the sound her cunt makes as he thrusts in and pulls out, and the attempts she makes at speaking. _Yes_ becomes _yesyesyes_ …and all manner of filth he has never heard spills from her mouth. She begs him to _fuck_ her, and he obliges.

It’s fast, and it’s over almost too soon for both of them, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, but he can’t survive the wash of slick as she comes around him. He pins her down, taking the last few seconds of his pleasure in deep, ruthless strokes, riding the rippling crests of her climax to facilitate his own. When he comes, it’s loud, punctuated with a swear as he buries himself in her, spending and spending until his balls are empty, until his body is weary and slack with pleasure. She’s so wet he slips from her easily, and her thighs quiver, her long legs falling to either side of her as they lay in stillness, panting.

The rain is whispering outside her window, and the room feels muggy in the aftermath. It feels like the seconds tick by too slowly before he finally rolls beside her with a sigh, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. He knows from experience that the day is long and he’ll need is strength.

“You missed me,” Hadiza teases, tracing the corded muscle of his bicep with her nails. Samson peers at her sidelong, smirking.

“Got that, did you?” He retorted, “Been a while since you let me have a go at you like that. Missed me too, eh?”

Hadiza smirks, scooting closer into the waiting crook of his arm. She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Got that, did you?” She mimics and he grins, laughing. They linger beneath the covers, and let the rain fill the silence. The thunder rumbles closer again, and Hadiza feels something in her fall into place.

Completion.


End file.
